Reluctant Angels: Secrets of a Hollywood Dressmaker

RELUCTANT

ANGELS

Secrets Of A Hollywood

Dressmaker

Guy C. Taylor

Copyright © 2001 by Guy C. Taylor.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

PREFACE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

PREFACE

I’m a registered nurse now, thanks to the urging of Grandmother. After my divorce she counseled me, No matter how much you’d love to be the homemaker for ‘Mr. Wonderful,’ dear, a girl has to have a career to fall back on. Take it from one who knows.

She gave me that advice in June of 1990, while I was spending the weekend with her after a party the family had given her on her ninetieth birthday. As she reminded us all, she was a new century gal. She had been born at the birth of the twentieth century.

Grandmother still retained her great sense of humor and straight-forward style. They say that in her day she was quite a beauty. I’ve heard her compared favorably to that gruff but likable 1930s and ‘40s star, Tallula Bankhead.

There had always been a special bond between the two of us. I was the youngest granddaughter, the last of the brood she secretly spoiled. I was also the only one that inherited her auburn hair. She was pleased that I carried on her genes. In the last decade she had given up her regular visits to the hairdresser, where she had maintained that auburn coloring. Her natural silver-white hair now shone, more appropriate for this gentle great-grandmother. We also had an unusual secret between us. We had both given up liquor.

It used to be that when I’d pay her a visit, on into the evening we would sip our brandy and find reasons to commiserate. But for the last five years I’d been on the wagon, having faced the fact that drinking had helped to destroy my marriage. In a last-ditch attempt to salvage that relationship, I had joined AA. Recognizing my struggle, Grandmother supported my effort, declaring that she had given up drinking as well.

The day after her birthday party was a Saturday and, recognizing that I would be alone, she invited me to stay over at her place. For dinner she took me to her favorite haunt, Taix Restaurant, a French bistro that specialized in hearty French-American fare. The staff there always remembered her name, making her feel more like part of the family than like a customer. During dinner that evening she told me some stories about a Mr. Noah Botwin, the man who had built the original cafe at this spot in the twenties. In those days Botwin’s was an unofficial hangout for L.A.’s politicos and police bosses.

One thing led to another, and by eleven that evening Grandmother and I were at her dining room table, enjoying coffee amidst a slew of albums that sheltered old photos and newspaper clippings. I was enthralled as she told me anecdotes from her marriages and her career, laced with tales of Los Angeles and Hollywood in the colorful nineteen-twenties and thirties.

Over the next few years, with her permission, I took thousands of notes in a couple of journals. It was also during that time that I studied to become a nurse.

My nurse training came in handy as, in her last years, Grandmother became frail and in need of my services. She wanted to pay for my time, but I assured her that this was simply helping me with my training. Besides, I considered myself well rewarded by the privilege of listening to her fascinating stories.

Now that I’m a full-time nurse—and by the way I found and married Mr. Wonderful—I have neither the time nor the talent to write Grandmother’s story. So I’m turning my journals of dictations and clippings over to my uncle, hoping that someday the story of this remarkable woman might be told to others.

Most of the characters and events are true; however, I wasn’t absolutely certain of each name and the authenticity of each event, so there is a limited amount of conjecture.

Patrice V. Powers, RN

CHAPTER ONE

It was a cold and rainy Saturday night in February of 1922, when there on the other side of town events were about to unfold that would forever change my life.

Gertrude Lincoln had sung her last song of the evening and at one-forty-five the band had retired. There was only the smell of stale smoke and spilled whisky in the empty speakeasy. Empty, with the exception of a brawny Negro bouncer standing just inside the front door, who was waiting to lock up for the night. An impeccably dressed but somewhat inebriated white man, Lagore Bentley, staggered from his bandside table to wait impatiently at the entrance. The svelte mulatto soloist threw her raincoat over her shoulders and bid the bouncer goodnight. Bentley grabbed her arm as they rushed out through the pouring rain to his recently purchased 1920 black Ford roadster. He had parked it next to the entrance of Street’s Blue Room for convenience, but mostly so he could show it off.

As they drove along Eighteenth Street, Lagore had one thing on his mind—the warmth of Gertrude’s body and the throbbing, hot sexual climax to another memorable weekend.

She wanted to say, Lagore, please don’t drive so fast, but she knew he’d pay no attention.

Downtown the Union Pacific train pulled out of the Kansas City station right on time as it headed into the stormy night for its long journey to California.

Hearing the whistle from the train, Gertrude prayed Lagore would be alert for the west-side crossing.

Suddenly, through the rain she saw a blinding flash of light. Grabbing at the dashboard, she tried to scream as the shrill train whistle blew, and the Ford skidded onto the tracks. There was a screech of steel hitting steel, and metal blowing up. The windshield burst against her face.

It was actually 1919, though it seems like only yesterday, when I first met Lagore.

One spring afternoon as I sat at our kitchen table, making a feeble attempt to concentrate on my homework, I could hear the guys choosing up teams in the lot next door. I was wishing that they might include me.

Sure enough, Walter came knocking at our screen porch door. Walter was my pal who lived in a house on the next street over, back to back from ours. He always treated me like a younger sister.

Murry! Murry Caruthers! You home?

I called out from the kitchen, Yah Walter, what do you want? Although I figured that it would be their game.

I need another body to make a team. Can you come out to play?

Hold on Walt, I’m comin’.

As I strolled nonchalant-like onto the vacant lot, I couldn’t help noticing a good-looking guy whom I hadn’t seen before. Then, as we were playing, I learned he answered to the name Lagore. Lagore Bentley.

Sure, I was something of a tomboy. But I needed to fit in. The next week I made myself conspicuous in the side yard when Walt and his friends were choosing up teams. That time Lagore was one of the captains. I tried to look casual as he answered my prayer, asking me to be on his team. Then one day, I couldn’t suppress a grin when, where no one else could hear him, Lagore took me to one side and said, Just between us, Murry, you got a stronger hit than most of the fellers.

After that he always invited me to join in their games and I clutched at the hope that someday he might consider me as a girlfriend. Although I enjoyed being on his team, I didn’t want this handsome young man to think of me as just another snot-nose neighborhood kid who happened to be a strong hitter.

By my eighteenth birthday, I had already decided on my future career. I loved clothing design, and luckily for me, both of my folks agreed that I exhibited a creative flair for it. My father had always been frugal, and I knew he had stashed away money for emergencies, so I was able to maneuver a loan from him that allowed me to enroll in Kansas City’s School of Dressmaking.

I was your typical Midwestern gal, with green eyes, a determined freckled face, and long red hair. Thanks to Mother’s constant nagging, I walked with upright posture. (I also hoped I’d appear a little taller than my five feet three inches.) And I kept my hair in a permanent wave to soften my features. Whenever an event would allow, I’d wear my own clothing creations.

However, I had a distressing female concern—I was practically flat-chested. Without question, there was a need for more padding in this girl’s upper torso. Taking my older sister, Grace, into my confidence, I told her of my personal dilemma. But she just laughed and said, Give it time, Sis. You’re not old enough to worry ‘bout such things. I should have known she’d say something like that. She was just a year older than me, but she had had well-rounded breasts ever since she was sixteen.

One day at the dressmakers’ school, while looking through a professional women’s dress design magazine, I ran across a discreet advertisement, the answer to my prayers. Right there in print the ad said: A curvaceous uplift for ladies less endowed. Great! I thought, here’s my chance for that full look I envied among some of my girl friends.

Breaking into my piggy bank, sure enough, I had saved up enough to splurge. Nothing was going to hold back this new chance for glamour. Off I went to the post office, where I bought a money order and sent away for that magic lift the ad had promised.

When the mysterious package arrived a few weeks later, I couldn’t wait to get it open. Grace was away at the time, so I had privacy in our room. I tore the postage wrapper off and ripped open the box. There in the instructions it said that the soft rubber bosoms could be made as large as one wished by simply blowing up the structured balloons. I did it and they were just right, firm and well shaped. Now, of course, I would need to fashion a good-looking blouse that would flatter this secret development. Pushing the new busts up under my sweater, I looked in the mirror and envisioned the new me—lovely designs began blooming like flowers in my mind.

Meanwhile I still enjoyed playing ball with the fellers in the lot next door. But I found that my eye was more often on Lagore Bentley than on the ball. Finally, after a few of my subtle hints, following one of our games Lagore asked if I would like to go out with him on the following Saturday. He invited me to have dinner and to take in a new film and vaudeville act at the Orpheum, Kansas City’s newest and grandest showplace. The theater featured a huge new Wurlitzer organ that was played as background music, adding excitement to the silent moving pictures. In those days, at theaters of any reasonable size, the moving pictures were accompanied by some kind of musical background, anywhere from a piano to, at the larger theaters, a small orchestra. The Orpheum had installed this immense pipe organ that bellowed with music which, at least to me, seemed more impressive than any orchestra, as it shook the building, vibrating your body right down to your very soul. Between movies, once each evening the Wurlitzer would also accompany a featured vaudeville performance.

Of course I accepted Lagore’s invitation.

On the day of the big date Lagore arrived at our house right on time. I had never seen him dressed up before and I couldn’t help being impressed. This time he had combed back his wavy black hair, which complimented his strong jaw and fine features. He wore a starched white shirt, dark blue slacks, and a tailored light gray tweed coat.

I had freshly styled my auburn-red hair for this occasion, pulling it up in the back with two jeweled decorative combs. I wore a lightweight tan overcoat to cover my newest fashion creation: the pearl white embroidered blouse, designed to compliment my secret contour. A pleated light beige cotton skirt completed the outfit. I felt self-confident, and I pictured the two of us as a refined and quite stylish couple.

We took the trolley downtown, then walked a short distance to Cafe Le Grand, a small but attractive restaurant that Lagore had chosen near the theater. I kept my coat on until we were inside. As the dining room host showed us to our table, Lagore gallantly offered, Can I take your coat, Murry?

Yes, thank you, Lagore.

He hung the coat on a nearby rack. Then, as we sat down I glanced at his face. Wonderful! I was sure he had noticed the blouse and, I hoped, my new profile. To create special attention I had placed a sparkling broach, a silver bird in flight, at the center of the blouse. If only I could have made the bird wink at Lagore.

After dinner we proceeded to the theater. At the Orpheum the featured silent movie turned out to be an exciting western with a romantic twist. While the organist played loud and lively background music and the cowboys raced on their horses across the screen, Lagore offered me popcorn that he was holding on the armrest between us. As we were watching the movie I reached over for some refreshment and … Pop! A sharp corner of the broach punctured the right breast. Fizzzz … it deflated. I felt my heart beating as fast as the horses were running across the big screen. The organ was so loud, I prayed that Lagore hadn’t heard or seen my catastrophe. If Lagore saw me with one breast up and the other sagging, this romance would surely be through. Good heavens, I thought, what am I going to do? When I felt certain that he was engrossed in the movie, as nonchalantly as possible, I reached up and adjusted the bird, hoping that at the right noisy moment I could deflate the left balloon.

Once again the cowboys were fighting the Indians and the organist was playing frantically. It was time to make my move. Pushing with my right shoulder, I tried again and again to hit the remaining inflated breast with the sharp broach pin. Just as I succeeded, the movie scene changed to romance and the organist stopped. Bang! Fizzzz. As the left breast quivered and died, I felt that everyone in our area of the theater was looking around to see if there had been a shot. Lagore said nothing and I could feel the warm flush of my face as it changed, almost to the color of my red hair. After the moving picture, a brief vaudeville musical and some live comedy was presented. Feeling dreadful, I had to force myself to laugh at the entertainment.

As we left the theater I kept my coat over my shoulders. Then, as we walked down the street heading for the trolley, at long last Lagore broke the silence. Murry, how’d you like to stop at the soda fountain for an ice cream soda?

Any other time I would have loved to extend the evening, but I didn’t want any possible reason to take off my coat. No thank you. It’s been a wonderful evening, Lagore, but I’m a bit tired. Could you please take me home?

I wasn’t quite sure if he knew what had happened; however, to my delight, a few days later Lagore called on the telephone to see if I would go dancing with him on the following Friday. He suggested we go to a place called Street’s Blue Room, a speakeasy in Dark Town. Lagore had learned they were featuring a new jazz pianist, a young colored man named William Basie. Basie headed up a band called the Blue Devils.

I was taken aback. Oh my, Lagore, you ever been there? I’m brave, but I’ve never been to a speakeasy.

Don’t worry, I know my way ‘round. You’re safe with me.

I’m sure, I said, But my parents mustn’t know. They wouldn’t allow it.

Of course I wanted to go—especially with Lagore. I loved to dance, and Lagore said he had heard that Basie and the Devils were the best jazz band in Kansas City.

To embellish the invitation Lagore said, You know how the song goes. I held the receiver, grinning as he sang:

"I’ll be down ta get ya in a taxi honey.

I’ll be there ‘bout half past eight.

Now baby … don’t be late.

We wanna be there when da band starts playin’."

What a proposition. Lagore was fun to be with, and it seemed that he didn’t mind taking chances. Against my better judgment my answer was yes.

The evening of our date Lagore picked me up right on time, at eight-thirty. This time he had hired a taxi. When we got to the door of the club, Lagore used a password he had been given by a colored maintenance man where he worked. With courteous aplomb we were admitted, then shown to a table near the bandstand, right at the dance floor. I was surprised by how beautifully the club was decorated. I could tell that Lagore was feeling important, and I found myself quite impressed.

At this time of the evening the place was already more than half full of well-dressed Negro customers. As we sat down, I noticed two other white couples nearby, which made me feel more at ease. Lagore ordered a double Scotch with a water chaser for himself and a Coca-Cola for me.

Soon the band came in and they played some standard ragtime. The ragtime was fun, but as soon as they began playing their unique Kansas City jazz, they really came to life, and the audience was electrified. When Lagore asked if I would like to dance, I replied I’d love to, but please be patient with me. I’m not experienced at this here new kind of jazz.

The truth is, I had practiced dancing to phonograph records, and with girlfriends, but I’d never danced with a man before.

Lagore reached over and poured some of his Scotch into my Coca-Cola. Here, try a little a this, Murry. It’ll loosen you up.

According to Lagore, William Basie’s Blue Devils Band were known for mixing jazz and the blues, creating a melodic rhythm known as That Kansas City Style, which was less severe than the brassy jazz being played in New Orleans and Chicago.

I’d seen pictures of colored people dancing like this and I wondered how they did it. But once Lagore and I got out on the floor, the Scotch must have hit me because in no time, losing my inhibitions without shame, I began jazz dancing as I’d never danced before! By the end